


You'll carry this with you

by amiesce



Category: Food Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s), POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queer Gen, Slice of Life, everyone shows up eventually prob, forgotten courtyard is indeed forgotten, gender neutral oc - Freeform, just let my faves l i v e
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 11:57:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18249359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amiesce/pseuds/amiesce
Summary: At the end of a twisting maze of side streets and alleys, you see red lanterns and rattling wind chimes decorating the front of a modest bistro. The four friends who work there have seen their share of strange customers and heard their fill of laughter and heartbreak. They'll listen to your story, too.Or: Queer babies run a restaurant.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The second person POV character is gender neutral and pan. You can treat them as a reader-insert or as their own character, whatever tickles your gourd.
> 
> Oh, the violence warning? Yeah, I mean it.

The rain is more like a foggy mist accompanied by a strong breeze, which means that it’s cold and also not worth the effort of pulling out your umbrella. All you can do is turn up the collar of your coat and stay near the walls as you wander through this city that wants nothing to do with you. You feel used up, spit out, and the weather isn’t quite gloomy or stormy enough to match your mood.

It was the happiest day in your life when you won that scholarship to a culinary school in Hilena, home to the Royal Chef Guild headquarters. People loved your innovative takes on potato leek soup and french fries. They tossed around terms like “modern rustic” and “humble meets haute cuisine”. You used to believe the world was your oyster, but no one had told you that the oysters had already been shucked and none of them had pearls. You came to the Light Kingdom hoping to make a splash, and you all you got was a bucket of ice water to the face.

Anyway, all this is to say that you’re lost, and you’ve never been in this neighborhood before. You’re also very hungry, since the last thing you ate was a boiled egg and bitter tea (they don’t take milk with their tea here) at breakfast. It’s probably time to find your way back to your roach-infested apartment, or to find someplace to sit down and have a bite.

In fact, it’s still quite faint, but you swear you smell fried dough coming from one of the nondescript buildings nearby. You follow the trail with confidence (your classmates didn’t call you The Bloodhound for no reason). At the end of a twisting maze of side streets and alleys, a courtyard of uneven, rain-slicked cobblestones suddenly opens up in front of you. At the far end of it, you see red lanterns and rattling wind chimes decorating the front of a modest bistro. You don’t have time to wonder why anyone would set up shop tucked away in a place like this — you’re way too hungry for that.

You duck under the clamoring chimes and open the door, triggering another cascade of bells. Compared to the ruckus outside the bistro, the interior is quiet and warm, with the soft melody of jazz drifting down from hidden speakers. Whoever designed this place had made the best use of an otherwise small space with low ceilings, papering the walls in a creamy peach color and using the vertical lines of the white wainscoting to give the illusion of height. The smell of fried dough isn’t at odds with the décor either, being neither greasy nor heavy.

What surprises you, however, is the figure who emerges from around the corner to stand behind the front counter. Her pale skin almost perfectly matches the shade of her frost-white hair, which hangs well past her slim hips. More than that, her beauty is breathtaking and almost eerie. In spite of that fact, you’re already half in love with her.

The cold look in her blue eyes tells you that your reaction is hardly uncommon, and very unwelcome. You flush in spite of yourself and take another look around at your surroundings. Going off of the delicate rose-gold clock on the wall, it’s that dead hour of the afternoon when most restaurants tend to get quiet. That, coupled with the near nonexistent foot traffic that a location in this kind of weather gets, means you’re the only customer in sight. Still, she doesn’t move to hand you a menu or ask you to take a seat.

You fidget. You glance down at your clothes, which strike you as shabby, drenched, and unbecoming on your thin frame. No wonder you’re being looked down on. In fact, you’re all but expecting to be thrown out of the place when a second figure appears around the corner. He looks startled at the sight of you, and you’re no less surprised at the look of him. His long black hair is tied in a low ponytail and he’s wearing a simple white top and apricot apron that seems to be the bistro’s uniform.

He clicks his tongue and turns his attention to the icy-haired young woman beside him. “Why didn’t you say anything? Here I was thinking the door was jammed.”

She ignores both him and you and walks back the way she came, which must be where the kitchen is.

The man has black hair and eyes that are also dark, but with a deep richness. He addresses you with a politely inviting smile. “I apologize, would you like to take a seat? I’ll bring you a menu and some hot tea right away.”

His voice is deep and smooth and is dangerously close to reigniting the blush on your face. You nod and quickly pick a booth along the wall, wincing at the wet squelches that accompany you across the floor. In no time at all, you are handed a menu with delicate ivy embossed in rose gold around the edges, and the crisp note of bergamot rises from the steam of the tea pouring into your cup. You look up, surprised, as your server lifts a miniature pitcher from the tea tray.

“Milk?” he asks.

You’re well on your way to falling in love all over again.

Trying not to clatter the cup against the saucer, you take a blissful sip. The flavor transports you right back to the sunny afternoons in Hilena when you and your best friends, Kit and Ross, would take tea on a café terrace and talk about your dreams. Yours was always to open a restaurant of your own that would showcase the best of home-style Gloriville cuisine — with a twist — to the world. You hadn’t imagined at the time that you’d be living by the seat of your pants in a strange country, hoping your savings won’t run out before the job opportunities do.

You know you can’t go home. That’s not an option for you anymore.

This restaurant is just a smidge out of your price range, but the weather is getting worse outside and the tea is the best that you’ve had in months. You scan the menu. Alongside some classic Light Kingdom pineapple fried rice and sautéed mushrooms, there are dishes you’d never heard of before. Stuffed lotus root? Curry crab?

The black-haired server returns to the table and you panic, having spent too much time reminiscing and not enough on actually deciding what you want to eat.

“Is there anything you would recommend?” you ask him. Your voice only cracks a little bit.

“We recently received a fresh shipment of eel, so the steamed unagi would be a good choice. If you’re not afraid of a little spice, I would also recommend the curry crab.”

You stare down at the menu. Something still hasn’t clicked for you. As much as you want to make a good impression and not annoy your server, you can’t bring yourself to just pick a dish at random and hope for the best.

You peek upwards again. “What’s your favorite dish on the menu?”

One dark eyebrow shoots upward. “My favorite dish?”

You nod. It begins slowly, but the smile that touches the corners of his mouth seems a lot more genuine than the ones that came before.

The server tucks a long strand of hair behind his ear. “The braised eggplant. Our chef does something wonderful with it.”

You sit back in your chair. “I’ll have that, and a bowl of rice, please.” Before he walks away and you lose your nerve, you add quickly, “Can I get your name?”

Once again, he seems taken aback. He recovers quickly, regaining his professional demeanor, but his voice sounds just a bit colder than it did before. He says, “You may call me Gui.”

Gui disappears around the corner again and you’re left to your own surmises. The décor of the place is much more pastel and airy than a usual Light Kingdom restaurant. It rather reminds you of something you’d see in Parisel, the fashion capital of Gloriville. It’s quite clean and well-kept, but the location is just too odd to overlook. Maybe this is a new restaurant still finding its legs, but you don’t see any promotional material advertising the place.

Is it possible that this place just isn’t any good?

No sooner does the thought cross your mind, the door bangs open. Five people in Gloriville-style clothing walk in, led by a flaxen-haired man in dark sunglasses with a taupe suit jacket thrown over his shoulders. At the back of the group, a lady with brown hair and a shepherdess dress closes the door quietly.

You’re fairly certain the lady in the top hat and dress with deep slits cut in the skirt has gun holsters strapped to her waist, and the white-haired lass next to her… is she wearing horns on her head? The group noisily sweeps past your table for a spot closer to the back, and you notice that they all give you strange looks as they walk by.

A different server pops into view, this one with long blond hair tied messily out of his face and a sloppy way of wearing his apron. There couldn’t be more of a difference between his lazy appearance and Gui’s polished elegance, but he too possesses that inhuman grace of movement, and he also stares at you a moment before walking to the back table.

Unexpectedly, the blond server doesn’t take the group’s orders, but instead drapes his arm over the back of the white-haired lass’s chair and starts chatting as if they’re all old friends. You catch snippets of their conversation, mostly the laughter coming from the man in the suit and the man next to him who’s wearing a shawl over his white dress shirt and black pants. It kinda hits you how alone you are.

Gui comes out with your food, and he doesn’t seem that happy with the commotion happening in the back of the restaurant. He walks over, has a quick word with his coworker, and the two of them return to the kitchen.

The group in the back is still chatting, but quieter now. You can’t help the paranoia that bubbles up, that maybe they’re talking about you. You lift your fork, then find you’re not that hungry. But it’s a shame to waste food, so you spear a piece of beautifully plated eggplant and taste it. The meaty umami flavor of the eggplant and the soy sauce bursts in your mouth, while the sweetness of the light touch of honey keeps the dish from becoming too overpowering. There’s even a touch of peppery heat, which even your mild Gloriville palate can enjoy. The combination achieved with the addition of fragrant jasmine rice makes you sigh with contentment.

The messy blond server comes out again with a tray balancing five different kinds of beverages. These other patrons must be regulars if he knows what to bring out even without taking their orders. He deftly crosses the small dining space, somehow looking both graceful and lackadaisical as he moves. The man with the dark glasses takes a sip of what looks like an espresso shot in a clear glass, then stands up at the table and starts clapping theatrically.

“Wonton,” he booms in a low voice that carries easily across the room, “Tell Cloud Tea she’s outdone herself again.”

Wonton laughs and taps his empty tray against the patron’s head, while one of the female guests pipes up, “You know she won’t like that, Coffee.”

Your palms are sweating. Those aren’t human names. It dawns on you, it's all so clear now — they’re Food Souls. They’re all Food Souls.

You’re struggling to get up from your booth as your breath comes faster and images flash through your memory. Images you would rather forget. You kick the table in your hurry to get _out_ of there and something shatters and you barely hear the sound. Someone’s shouting, someone’s grabbing your arm. You shove them away and run for the door. You’re outside, and the rain hits you like bullets. You’re vomiting up bits of eggplant and something inhuman with too many mouths is shrieking and Kit is crawling toward you on her elbows across the blood-slippery cobblestones and she’s missing her legs —


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay so the last chapter went from 0 to 100 but I swear once all the prologue-y bits are out of the way this will eventually be slice of life...

The cool hand on your back reminds you of your mother. It catches you off-guard, because you haven’t thought about her in a long while.

The black-haired server, Gui, is standing behind you, and you gradually realize that the rain isn’t hitting you even though you can still hear it roaring down around you. Gui is holding an umbrella over you, while he stands in the rain, and he is bending down to place that soothing hand on your back.

“Why don’t you come inside?” he asks, with a voice like the inside of a deep, smooth cave. “You’ll catch a cold in this rain.”

When you don’t move, the hand on your back removes itself and reaches toward you, offering to help you to your feet. You stare down at his hand. Take it, you coward.

Forcing down the squeamish urge to run, you place your shaking hand in his. You let yourself be led inside, and the rainwater that sluices off of you collects in pools on the dark hardwood floor.

You’ve stepped into Wonderland, like the one in the stories you heard as a child. Everything looks the same, but slightly off-kilter.

The Food Soul named Coffee and the one wearing a shawl and a red hat with a short brim have also gathered at the entrance. The latter immediately takes off his shawl and wraps it around your shoulders, bundling you tight. When you look up in surprise, he brushes a wet strand of hair off of your face.

“Tell Cloud Tea to whip up a hot cocoa,” the Gui instructs Wonton, who gets up from the counter where he’s been leaning. After staying in the rain with you for who knows how long, Gui is soaked from head to toe. Still, he neatly wraps up the umbrella and places it in the stand near the door. Before turning into the kitchen, Wonton regards you head to toe with a languidly curious expression. You suppose you look miserable and ridiculous.

After some wordless communication between the Food Souls, Coffee and the other guest usher you to the nearest table and sit down with you, while Gui heads for the kitchen.

“I’ll pay you back for the clothes,” you mumble through chattering teeth, as water seeps through the soft wool, maybe alpaca, that this stranger has so graciously lent to you.

“Don’t worry about it,” the ruined shawl’s owner replies.

“This bastard will do anything for a pretty face,” Coffee chimes in.

You’re not even given a moment to respond to that when the Food Soul who lent you his shawl lightly grasps your fingers and lifts them to his lips.

“He’s just jealous, _meu amor_ ,” he says, smiling with his dark eyes. “My name is Chocolate. And you are?”

You’re interrupted by another bustle of activity as the other three female patrons, leaving their table, suddenly join the group. The one with brown hair and the dress that reminds you of shepherdess garb walks right up to you and starts patting your face and forehead, while the other two stand at a distance.

“You poor dear, whatever made you run out into the rain like that? You’ll almost certainly catch a cold at this rate. Oh, stop scowling at me, Chocolate, and move over. Alright, dear, I’m Tiramisu, and that’s Chocolate, Coffee, Black Tea, and Milk, and we were sitting over there at our table just talking about how you’re the most adorable thing and we’d all love to get to know you better —”

You’re feeling some kind of mental whiplash from everything that’s happening, and it honestly leaves you a bit nauseous, only there’s nothing left in your stomach and you don’t want to make a mess on Tiramisu’s dress. All you can manage is to sit there like a stone Buddha while Chocolate and Coffee squabble in the background and Tiramisu pets your cheeks and tuts over what she’s sure is the start of a fever.

“Alright, all of you,” interrupts a cold voice, which comes from the blue-haired Food Soul. She casts an instant chill over the room, and the five guests obediently move away as she walks over and sets a huge mug of steaming hot cocoa in front of you. Her expression as she regards you is just the same as the one she had when you first walked into the restaurant.

She hates you. She’d throw you out if she could. You’ve caused enough trouble. You’re worthless. You shouldn’t be alive —

She drops a pile of clothes, which you recognize as the bistro’s uniform, onto the booth next to you. “Drink that, then change into these. Bathroom’s there.” She turns to the guests, and all but two of them flinch (the one in the top hat and slit dress, and the one with white hair and what are definitely real horns, don’t react). “Return to your table,” she tells them.

With that, she turns on her heel and walks away.

You hunch in your seat and try to make as little noise as you can, which is difficult with all the squeaking and sloshing of your wet clothes and shoes. Wrapping your hands around the mug, which is truly monstrous, you’re able to find some comfort in its warmth at least. It takes two sips for you to 1) scald your tongue and 2) realize you’ve never had a hot cocoa as delicious as this one.

It’ll take a while for the drink to cool to a reasonable temperature, so you take the clothes and squelch your way to the bathroom. You feel five pairs of eyes on you, but you do your best to ignore them. In the bathroom (clean and with the same delicate design and décor, you can’t help but notice), you lock the door quickly and stand there, breathing heavily through your nose. You can see your reflection in the mirror, which looks like a drowned rat. Slap your cheeks, pinch them a little to get the blood flowing again, and get over it. You’re being a baby.

The white top is a decent fit on you, but the tan trousers are too long and you have to roll up the hems several times before you’re sure you won’t trip while walking. The Food Soul named Cloud Tea has even provided indoor slippers, so you don’t have to go on wearing your squelchy boots. With the wet but hopefully not ruined shawl draped over one arm, and your old clothes bundled up carelessly in the other hand, you take a long, deep breath before stepping back into the restaurant.

Gui is waiting outside the door, which makes you jump. He’s changed into fresh clothes as well, and his long hair has been piled up into a high bun. With his hair worn like this, the delicately angular structure of his face is much more visible. Needless to say, you’re flustered as he takes your clothes from you and puts them into a bag, probably to avoid dripping more water onto the floor. You wince, thinking of the puddles you left behind in the bathroom.

Now Gui reaches out a hand to take the shawl. You hand it over, but you feel a little exposed once you’ve done so. You shuffle back to your table with the intention of finishing your cocoa quickly, paying the check, and getting out of here as quickly as possible.

You’ve barely taken two more sips, which doesn’t even put a dent in the massive drink, when there’s a fresh commotion in the kitchen. A figure bursts out into the dining area, someone you haven’t seen before. She’s wearing the bistro’s uniform, but her apricot apron is covered in flour and other cooking stains. Her long black hair spills out of the hairnet at the nape of her neck, and there’s a smudge of chocolate sauce on her cheek.

You straighten up in your seat, taken aback at her sudden explosion into the room, and you tense up further when she walks straight up to your table. Once arrived, she seems to lose all confidence, wringing her hands and staring down at the floor as she mumbles something under her breath.

“P-pardon?” you stammer.

She looks briefly into your face, then crumples into an onslaught of silent tears.

Cloud Tea is next to storm out of the kitchen, making you jump again. She marches over, grips the quietly sobbing girl by the shoulders, and turns her away from your table. Directed at you, in her cold voice, Cloud Tea states, “She is very sorry for making you sick. She hasn’t cooked for a human in a long time. Please accept her apology.”

“Yes, of course,” you answer immediately, feeling as if you’re the one who should be apologizing instead. After a beat, you add, “I wasn’t sick because of the food, though. It was very good. Uh, I was already feeling ill before I came in. Really, there’s no need to apologize.”

Cloud Tea narrows her eyes at you, then shifts her attention to the frazzled chef, probably another Food Soul. You notice the icy gaze turn liquid and gentle.

“There,” Cloud Tea says, “your apology has been accepted. Now stop crying.”

The chef, now hiccupping between sobs, bows deeply to you and rushes back to the kitchen. Cloud Tea fixes you with one more chilly gaze before clicking her tongue and following her coworker. The whole spectacle doesn’t last more than a few minutes, and you can feel the stares of the other patrons on you as you sink into your seat and cradle your enormous mug.

No matter how many Food Souls you’ve seen in your life, you’ve never been able to tell the difference between them and humans. The thought sends a funny ticklish sensation to the soles of your feet. You’d think that the otherworldly beauty might tip you off, but next to your neutrally plain appearance, everyone looks beautiful. Though, to be fair, you’ve never seen so many of them walking around on their own, apart from their human contractors. They’re here nibbling on cakes and chatting among themselves in this strange Wonderland of a bistro, in a world of their own.

You take another long sip. The delicious, creamy taste swirls around your palate, not too milky, not too rich with chocolate. You think you detect some nutmeg, maybe some cardamom? You’d never heard of Food Souls running a restaurant before. Working in restaurants, helping with deliveries and such, sure, but running a restaurant by themselves? Where were their contractors, if they had any? If they didn’t, then how could they be here?

The hot cocoa soothes you, calms you — calms you so effectively, in fact, that you wonder if Cloud Tea has put something medicinal in the drink. In the lull, your mind tries to play back your memories of Kit drowning in her own bloody mess and Ross screaming — but your thoughts keep being pulled back to sipping espressos with Kit on the café balcony and posing like ridiculous caricatures so that Ross can sketch you…

Your head hits the table, jostling the silverware, but it feels like coming to rest on a pillow. Above you and at a distance, you hear faint voices swishing and overlapping.

“…asleep?”

“What else could we do—”

“…human, here? How did…”

“Now what?”

“For now, let’s move…”

“Careful…head…”

Your body feels heavy, but somehow you’re floating in the air. Someone brushes a still-wet lock of hair off your forehead. You’re reminded again of your mother, her weak and cold hands struggling to lift the spoon to her dry, papery lips, and the painful effort it takes for her to smile.

“This soup is delicious,” she says, and then you’ve sunk so deeply into yourself that you can’t tell her how much you’ve missed her.


End file.
